


summer heart

by cherryconke



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Family Vacation, Hair Washing, M/M, Married Life, Parenthood, Post-War, older sylvix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:30:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23300140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryconke/pseuds/cherryconke
Summary: For the first time in a year, there are no letters awaiting answering, no reports or requests to read, no contracts to review, no meetings to attend or councils to hold or banquets to host – just time, and each other.—The Fraldarius family takes a summer vacation to Fhirdiad.
Relationships: Background Mercinette, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, background dimileth
Comments: 4
Kudos: 153





	summer heart

**Author's Note:**

> this fic takes place a few years after [marigold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23047009) – for extended background on Sylvain and Felix's daughters, check that out! the tl;dr is:
> 
> 💖Ava is eight and Sylvain's biological daughter. She was dropped on the Fraldarius doorstep at three years old as a bastard and immediately adopted as a Fraldarius (Sylvain took Felix's name after marrying, effectively ending the Gautier line and merging their two territories together). Ava is bright, bubbly, and adventurous. 
> 
> 💖Rory (Aurora) is five and was adopted by Sylvain and Felix at a few months old from Mercedes' orphanage she set up in Fhirdiad; she's quiet and shy but loves Linhardt, Dimitri, and following her older sister around.
> 
> —

“Papa, are we _there_ yet?”

Ava’s voice rings out loud in the chilly air, bright and edging on too whiny. Sylvain smiles fondly down at where his eldest daughter tilts the top of her head against his chest to blink up at him, mouth twisted into a pout. They sway together atop Lady, her back pressed up to his chest, little hands gripping the horn of the saddle. Sylvain smooths her choppy bangs out of her eyes, smiling as she wrinkles her nose up at him.

“Not yet, love.”

Ava huffs.As the girls have grown older and less fussy, their annual trip to Fhirdiad has grown shorter each year – less stops and more time in the saddle – but they’re still a few hours out from the capital city, and even at almost nine-years-old, Sylvain can tell that Ava’s patience is starting to wear thin.

“We’ve been riding _forever,”_ she complains. Sylvain can barely hear Felix’s quiet snort behind them from his horse and decides to switch tactics. Distraction usually works; it’s served him well in keeping the girls preoccupied on the five day ride thus far. 

“Who are you looking forward to seeing the most?”

Ava’s eyes light up in hazel sparks. “Well, Hugo, obviously.” _Obviously?_ Sylvain thinks. _When did Hugo become her favorite?_ “Leo… Aunt Ingy, Uncle Dima, Annie, Mercie, Linny, hmm…” she reels off in rapid succession before pausing and furrowing her brow in concentration. “Do you think Dedue will have sorbet?” 

Sylvain laughs; Ava’s definitely inherited his sweet tooth, much to Felix’s chagrin. “I’m sure he’ll make it for you if you ask nicely. I bet he’d even teach you how.”

“Really?”

 _“Yes,_ really,” he teases her, redirecting Lady back towards the center of the dirt road with a gentle nudge of the reins. Sylvain glances back at the rest of their retinue: behind him, Felix rides double with Rory. The rest of their party travels a little ways behind them: a handful of their trusted staff ride in a tidy group, the packhorses trailing along at the very end. 

Gone are the days of traveling light, just him and Felix, their mounts, and maybe a bedroll between the two of them, but Sylvain’s found he wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s their first year traveling without a proper carriage for the girls, and though Felix was nervous at first, Sylvain knows the fresh air, clear skies, and balmy nights around the campfire have done them all good, roasting fresh fish caught from the river for dinner and naming stars (predictably, all after Ava’s favorite horses from the Fraldarius stables) and making up new constellations until they’re all too drowsy to keep their eyes open. 

_(Do you remember camping as kids?_ Felix had asked him one night after the girls had fallen asleep on the other side of the tent, running careful fingertips across the thatch of hair on Sylvain’s chest while Sylvain busied himself trailing kisses to the crown of Felix’s head.

 _Yeah. Glenn was the worst babysitter._ Sylvain recalls their trips to the capital to see Dimitri fondly, Ingrid and Felix pressed to each side as the three of them wriggled in their sleeping bags under the stars, pointing out birds and butterflies (and swords, _always_ swords, with Felix) in the pinprick, starry constellations. Glenn always let them run wild while they were on the road, though Sylvain always made sure to be the responsible one, patching up Felix’s scrapes and calming Ingrid’s wild tantrums.

Sylvain remembers the long trips from Gautier to Fraldarius with considerably less affection, when he only had Miklan for company. 

_He was, wasn’t he?_ Felix pressed a ribbon of laughter into his cheek, which Sylvain promptly swallowed up in a lazy kiss, sweeter than the honeybees nuzzling just-bloomed wildflowers.)

Ava’s hand latches around his fingers as they curl around Lady’s reins, her head falling back to rest heavy against his ribcage as she slumps back. Her little fingers find his wedding band, twisting it back and forth on his ring finger, a comforting gesture she’s picked up from Sylvain’s own nervous habits – he often finds himself rubbing his thumb over the raised moonstone when he needs to fidget.

“We’ll be at Uncle Dima’s soon, just a few more hours. Okay, sweetheart?”

Worry creases Ava’s brows together and tinges her voice when she asks: “Hugo _will_ be there, right, papa?”

Sylvain bends down to press a fond kiss to the top of her head in the mass of springy ginger curls there. _“Yes,_ love. It’s his house, after all.”

Hugo is, of course, the spitting image of Dimitri (the Blaiddyd genes are ridiculously strong), all platinum blonde hair and bright blue eyes – tempered with the quiet courage of his mother, serious but strong, even at only eight years old. It amuses Sylvain to no end, watching Ava with her fiery Gautier hair and endless energy, tugging the young prince along behind her on whatever wild adventure she has planned.

Sylvain’s interrupted from his thoughts by the sound of Felix riding up on his left. He looks beautiful like this, Sylvain thinks, freed from being cooped up at their estate (part of Sylvain silently thrills, even after all these years, thinking of it as _their_ estate) after a particularly long, harsh winter: his hair flows long down his back, swaying with each step his mount takes; clear amber eyes reflect love back at Sylvain in the morning light, arms looped securely around Rory. 

They’ve both been quiet this morning, two sets of solemn eyes watching carefully over the road before them: Rory’s wide and bright, drinking in the scene before her like a sponge; Felix’s tired and a little weary from a week of continuous travel, wrinkles wearing themselves into the corners as he squints into the distance towards their destination. 

“Hi, darling,” Sylvain greets them easily. Felix smiles back at him – just a little thing, a mere quirk of his lips by anyone else’s standards, but it fills Sylvain’s heart with a specific, warm sort of joy he’s long-learned to associate with his husband’s rare displays of affection.

“We’re almost there, Rory!” Ava trills over at her sister, who turns up to tug on Felix’s coat for confirmation with wide, curious eyes.

“Really, papa?”

Felix nods. “Your sister’s right. It’ll only be a few more hours.” 

“A few more hours! A few more hours!” Ava chants, sing-song, and Rory breaks out into a grin and joins along: _a few more hours! A few more hours!_

Sylvain just laughs and catches the smile in Felix’s eyes, twin poppy sunsets as they ride towards the city gates, just a hazy line on the horizon. 

—

They approach Fhirdiad with as little fanfare as possible, passing through the city gates and immediately greeting the discreet escort Dimitri had sent down to welcome them. Ava’s squirming nonstop in his arms, filling the air around them with a barrage of nonstop questions _(papa, look, they’re doing puppets, can I go look, please please pleeeease?)._ Sylvain just chuckles and scrubs a hand through her hair, much to her annoyance. “We’ll be there soon, darling.”

Rory stays quiet, staring in wonder at the sights and sounds and smells of the city around them – that is, until the moment Sylvain helps her dismount and passes her off into Felix’s arms. They’re halfway up the palace steps when she catches sight of Dimitri and her typically solemn composure breaks:

“Dima!” Rory wiggles out of Felix’s arms, surprisingly agile, and runs full-speed up the steps, only to crash abruptly into the king’s knees, wrapping her arms around one in an insistent hug. Sylvain can see half of her grin, face pressed up against his leg. 

For whatever reason, both Dimitri and Linhardt have always been Rory’s favorite people. During past trips, Sylvain would often find her dozing off in the palace’s expansive library, curled up in a window seat while Lin pored through stacks and stacks of books. And whenever she got tired of tagging along behind Ava and Hugo and Leo, Rory would always be drawn to Dimitri’s quiet presence, falling asleep against his shoulder or in his lap.

Dimitri laughs, full-fledged and deep, before whisking her up into his arms like she weighs nothing. Sylvain grins at the sight of their daughter, nearly lost in Dimitri’s cloak, ensconced in royal blue; even Felix can’t hold back a smile as Ava runs after her sister, stopping to hug Dimitri’s leg with a quick, “Hi, Uncle Dima!” before running past him and tackling Hugo into a much more enthusiastic, aggressive hug. _“Hugo, Hugo, Hugo, it’s been_ SO _long, I have_ SO _much to tell you–”_

Sylvain tugs Felix close around the waist once they both reach Dimitri and greet him. Rory already has her head laid on Dimitri’s shoulder, tiny fingers curled comfortingly into velvet.

“It’s good to see you both.” Dimitri smiles at both of them. “Come, come inside, everyone’s in the garden.”

“Who all is here?” Sylvain asks, unable to keep the grin off his face. Ava and Hugo trail along after them, chattering animatedly, catching up after nearly six months apart. 

“Mercedes and Annette arrived last night with Leo,” Dimitri says. “Ingrid’s been here a week or so. Linhardt, Dedue and Ashe are around here _somewhere–_ oh, perfect timing!”

Dedue rounds the corner, carrying a small stack of books, and is immediately tackled into one of Ava’s infamous hugs.

 _“Dedue!_ It’s been so long, and Papa told me you had peach sorbet, or well, that you could make some, _and_ he said that maybe, if I asked nicely, you could teach me to make it!” Her words come out fast and jumbled, but Dedue just laughs and returns her hug, looking towards Sylvain inquisitively, who shrugs and smiles. 

“I thought maybe you could teach her,” he offers, and Dedue smiles even wider, laugh-lines creasing themselves around his eyes. 

“Ah, little chef in the making, hm?” Ava nods enthusiastically. 

Dedue promises to join them for dinner later, and they continue following Dimitri through the foyer and into one of the sprawling gardens carved out within the palace.

Peacetime is a good look on all his friends (something Sylvain’s come to appreciate more and more recently, as salt-and-pepper starts to weave itself through Felix’s hair and his own laugh-lines grow deeper each year), but it fits Dimitri impossibly well – some of his quiet, uneasy energy remains, but he’s easier to smile and chuckle, rarely falling to the raging fits of anger and despair he’d suffered so frequently before taking the throne. Time has tempered him – tempered them all – and smoothed over half a lifetime of wounds, leaving only bittersweet scars, reminders of a different world.

Dimitri carries Rory easily in his arms, chatting amicably with Felix as they make their way down stone steps towards where a small group of people are gathered around a table – Sylvain can spot Annette’s hair, gleaming orange in the sunlight – and this, too, is another relationship mended by time and peace and children. Sylvain knows it’s impossible to go back to the way things were before the war, or before Duscur and Glenn, but both Dimitri and Felix have come such a long way, to be joking and talking together like this, insults and nicknames a thing of the past.

“Felix! Sylvain! Girls!” Annette trills when she catches sight of them, and soon Sylvain’s caught up in a whirlwind of greetings and fond hugs and kisses pressed to cheeks: Annette tugging on the loose ends of Felix’s hair, exclaiming how long he’s let it get; Mercedes rubbing a thumb affectionately through Sylvain’s scruffy beard, telling him that she likes his new look; Byleth wrapping them each up in firm hugs, telling them how good it is to see them again.

The adults settle around the table, laden with snacks and chilled wine and water, while the kids all run off to find Mercedes and Annette’s son, Leo, who had been deep in the garden looking for bugs last they checked. Felix breathes a sigh of relief and immediately collapses into a chair while Sylvain pours them both wine before settling in next to his husband, giving his arm a little squeeze. 

He listens to Mercedes update on how the orphanage is going (fantastic, by the sound of it), Dimitri recount the latest policies passed regarding border policies and taxing of imported goods (Sylvain, admittedly, tuned out for most of this), and Annette gush over the new, bigger location she’d secured, hopefully to get her dreams of starting a bakery up and running (Sylvain eagerly volunteers himself and Ava to be her first taste-testers). 

It’s good to be able to sit back and listen, to revel in his friend’s successes in the summer sun, their children running circles around them. Nostalgia hits hard, the entire scene reminding Sylvain of his own visits to the palace in the summer, tugging Felix along as he ran after Dimitri and Ingrid, tumbling in the honeysuckle grass and climbing up the twisted trunks of every apple tree in the orchards and getting lost in the very same garden maze they’re sitting at the edge of now.

Eventually, Byleth settles into the seat next to his, topping off his wine glass generously. Dimitri’s enthusiastically going over his plans of renovating the cathedral in Fhirdiad next year with Mercedes, while Annette is humming bits and pieces of a new song she wrote to Felix on the other side of the table.

“Cheers,” Byleth says brightly, clinking their two glasses together. “How have things been?”

Sylvain smiles gratefully at her. It’s been years since they were all at school, but it’s still hard not to think of her as _the_ professor, their fearless leader during some of the worst years of their lives. “Good. Same old, same old, you know?” 

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Byleth teases. “What, is the life of Duke Fraldarius not exciting enough for you?” 

Sylvain can’t help but laugh softly. “No, no, it’s not that at all.” 

He swirls his wine in his glass and tips it back, thinking of all the ways his life had, somehow, miraculously, fallen together perfectly. He thinks of Felix, how they’ve been married for almost ten years but each day still feels brand new and fresh: he’s long-since accepted the fact that he’ll never tire of waking up to Felix’s face tucked into his chest, or pressing kisses to his cheeks before bed. 

He thinks of their children, safe and worriless, enjoying a childhood full of all of the things Sylvain had missed out on and none of the things he’d had to endure. He thinks of the old traditions they’d broken together – merging the Gautier and Fraldarius territories into one, the peace treaties he’d worked so hard to forge with Sreng, how Ava’s never been tested for a crest, and never has to worry about it.

“Things are good,” Sylvain amends. “They’re really good.”

Byleth smiles, eyes flicking across the table and over to Dimitri, affection and love written plain-as-day across her face. “I’m glad to hear it. We’re still on for chess, yes?”

Sylvain pouts at the insinuation that he’d ever miss one of his favorite traditions they’ve formed on these annual vacations: getting lost in long, tricky games of chess with Byleth, both of them seizing the opportunity to play against someone of a similar skill level and rabbit-hiking into hours-long games with utmost focus. “Of course! I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

A sly smile spreads across her face. “Tomorrow, then.” 

Sylvain grins back. “You’re on.” 

The sun is setting, painting their little corner of the courtyard in vivid golden amber. Sylvain is zoning out, watching Ava and Hugo crouch together over what looks suspiciously like a frog, smiles on both their faces, foreheads nearly touching. Rory has long-since passed out on his lap, head slumped and drooling hot condensation into Sylvain’s neck, over-tired from the ride there and from trying to keep up with the older kids. 

He’s brought back to reality by Felix pressing chaste kisses – first to Rory’s temple, then to his cheek. Sylvain smiles into it, bringing his free hand up to tuck a loose lock of hair behind Felix’s ear.

“Hey. Everyone’s going down to see the new wine cellar.” Felix’s voice sounds a little fuzzy from the drinks they’ve had so far, breath sweet where it washes over Sylvain. 

“I’ll put the girls to bed,” Sylvain offers, rubbing his thumb affectionately across Felix’s cheek as Felix’s eyes flick over to Ava, then down to Rory, then back to Sylvain, soft contentment written across his face.

“You sure?” Felix asks.

Sylvain nods and pulls him down for another kiss. This one is longer and sweeter, and Sylvain tries to push as much meaning into it as he possibly can without words: _I love you. I love seeing you enjoy yourself with our friends. You look so beautiful, smiling and laughing without a single care in the world._

Felix seems to get it, because when they part, there’s a smile on his face, one that Sylvain returns easily. “Yeah. Go. Have fun.”

—

“Enjoying your vacation?”

When Sylvain wakes, it’s to the vision of Felix lazily smirking down at him, firelight flickering across cheekbones as his fingertips brush velvet patterns across Sylvain’s forehead, pushing the hair from his face. Sylvain blinks, attempting to wipe the sleep from his eyes as he tips his head against the back of the loveseat to smile blearily up at his husband.

“Mm– sorry, sweetheart, guess I was tired. I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Sylvain admits with a soft laugh, careful not to wake Rory and Ava, who are nestled against him where they fell asleep: Rory half-sprawled across his chest, Ava tucked into his side. Felix curls his thumb across the grown-out scruff dusting Sylvain’s cheek, his perfect smile loose with wine and wholly unfettered as Sylvain leans into his touch, kissing the rough pad of Felix’s finger fondly. 

“Let’s go to bed,” Felix murmurs in response, hand falling away to help carefully extricate Sylvain from the tangle of heat and limbs. Rory and Ava shift in their sleep, curling up together in a puddle of quilts; Sylvain can’t help but let out a sigh of relief when he successfully manages to peel himself off the sofa and out from under their clinging arms. 

“Bath first?” Sylvain asks once kisses have been dropped on foreheads and beloved stuffed animals have been tucked under the covers. Felix nods and steps easily into his orbit as Sylvain’s hands settle around his waist and he ducks his face into Felix’s neck, nosing clumsy kisses there. He smells sweet and earthy, breath wine-laced from his visit to the royal cellars.

 _“Please._ You smell like a horse.” 

“And _you_ smell like a wine cellar,” Sylvain teases back, keeping Felix pressed up against his side as he unlocks the door to their rooms. They’re in the same suite they stay in every summer, the one with a ridiculously soft, massive bed and a bath deep enough for them both to soak in and a private balcony that leads to a sprawling garden the girls spend hours playing hide-and-seek in. It truly feels like vacation, and Sylvain fully appreciates the luxuries of staying in the capital with the King.

“How was it, by the way?”

Felix huffs, immediately sitting on the edge of the bed to start yanking off his boots, kicking them to the side before moving onto the buckles on his coat. “Good. _Huge._ Definitely bigger than our entire kitchen; it’s a little ridiculous.”

Sylvain chuckles. Stripping out of his clothes is easy, and he moves to Felix as soon as he’s done, slipping the tie out of his hair and placing a chaste kiss on his brow. “Well, they _are_ the royal cellars, sweetheart. Ridiculous is kind of implied.”

Felix hums in response, pulling his white cotton shirt over his head and pressing easily up into Sylvain’s arms. He runs his hands across Felix’s shoulders, temporarily distracted by the criss-cross of thin white scars there, relics of their youth. It seems like a lifetime ago, fighting for their lives, still just children in the grand scheme of it all. Sylvain realizes, with a sharp jolt in his stomach, that in another world, they’d be sending Ava off to the Officer’s Academy in just five or six short years. 

Sylvain’s never been particularly devout, but when he looks at his children, he thanks the Goddess that they won the war.

“I thought we were taking a bath,” Felix teases, threading his fingers through Sylvain’s and tugging him along. It’s a deep sunken pool, large enough for several people – _ridiculous,_ really, to use Felix’s words – but it fills up quickly, especially when Sylvain preoccupies himself combing through the tangled ends of Felix’s hair, a bit matted from throwing it back into a messy, unwashed bun during days of travel.

 _“Goddess,_ that’s nice.” Felix sighs as he slips into the bath, steam rising as he sinks down to his shoulders, dark hair fanned around him. Sylvain is quick to follow after grabbing a basket of soap and oils left out on the counter – Dimitri’s staff runs an amazingly thoughtful estate, and they’ve visited enough times that they always knew to stock their favorites during their stays: an assortment of handmade soaps for Sylvain, a jar of that pine needle tea blend from Almyra that Felix loves so much, and of course, Ava’s favorite: Dedue’s peach sorbet, sweet like summer.

Felix drifts back towards him after dunking his head, wet lashes like spangled starlight as he noses into Sylvain’s neck to press chaste, wine-sweet kisses there. Sylvain doesn’t even have to ask to wash his hair, Felix simply hands him a bar of soap and a jar of oil he plucks out of the basket, and turns to swipe the heavy curtain of hair over his shoulder expectantly. He gets to work, lathering soap that smells faintly of eucalyptus and cedar through Felix’s hair. It nearly reaches past the wings of his shoulder blades now, and Sylvain has a feeling he won’t be cutting it anytime soon, not with the way Ava likes to practice her braids on it – reverse, four-strand, fishtail, getting more and more complex every time Hilda or Dorothea come to visit.

Soon Felix is sighing contented little noises into Sylvain’s fingertips against his scalp, utterly boneless against Sylvain’s chest as he draws him back, hair finally clean, to press a kiss to his forehead, lingering there far longer than Felix usually allows. For the first time in a year, there are no letters awaiting answering, no reports or requests to read, no contracts to review, no meetings to attend or councils to hold or banquets to host – just time, and each other. 

When Felix opens his eyes, it’s to smile, lazy and content, up at him. 

“It looked like the girls went down easy.”

Sylvain chuckles and nods, ducking down to press his lips against Felix’s. His mouth is soft and open, just this side of sloppy as they kiss. When Sylvain pulls back, he knocks his forehead against Felix’s gently. “Yeah, they did. They’re exhausted.” 

Riding everyday for a week had taken its toll on all of them, but running around the gardens all afternoon with Hugo and Leo? Ava had started snoring in a handful of minutes at most, while Rory had fallen asleep well before that, crawling up on Sylvain’s lap as the older three continued to play, only to promptly pass out against his neck.

“We’ll get to sleep in tomorrow,” Felix muses, fingertips tracing idle patterns across the expanse of Sylvain’s shoulders, smoothing triangles between three scars: one long and thin, the other two deeper, pink starbursts of arrows pierced through the gaps in his armor. Felix trails across the beard framing Sylvain’s chin, a little rough from their days of travel, and through the soft thatch of chest hair, flitting idly to a thumb over a dusky nipple before slipping back to his cheek, rubbing circles there.

Sylvain hums. “Probably,” he agrees, nosing into Felix’s neck, slipping soapy hands to rest on the tops of his knees. He knows where this is going, knows how Felix gets when he has no obligations, all the usual tension bled out into soft, contented bliss – but that doesn’t make it any less sweet when Felix murmurs, “which means we have time for this–“ and licks into Sylvain’s mouth. 

Sylvain hums again, this time into Felix’s mouth as he shifts him so that he’s gathered up in his lap, tucked against Sylvain’s chest, water lapping warm around them. 

There’s truly nothing he loves more than being wrapped up in Felix, warm and safe and deeply, stupidly in love, the weight of him in his lap familiar, the scars beneath his fingertips as he traces up the curve of his neck to cradle the back of his head well-known, every flutter of dewy lashes and sigh slipped into his mouth like home. 

Sylvain is just about to break their kiss and tell Felix all this himself when Felix beats him to it. 

(Just as Felix confessed his love first in school, blushing impossibly red and stuttering out every other word. Just as Felix had kissed him first not long after, a rough, bruising thing with too much teeth. Just as Felix proposed first, sliding a simple dark band around Sylvain’s trembling finger, set with moonstone and shining with love.)

“I love you,” Felix reminds him, and Sylvain feels like his heart is fit to burst. 

“Love you too, kitten.”

Felix seems satisfied with his response, because he sinks back into Sylvain’s mouth and they fall together again. Sylvain completely loses track of time, lost in the way Felix's mouth moves against his in an easy push-pull, a dance quickly taught and slowly perfected over the years together. 

Time has changed them both in different ways: Sylvain, getting broader and softer and wider, his chin and chest and forearms covered in a soft fuzz; Felix, still lithe and wiry, his hair grown long and speckled with the occasional salt-and-pepper strand; both carving laugh-lines and crow’s feet into their skin.

When Sylvain breaks away, it’s to Felix looking flushed and vaguely sleepy in his lap, lips swollen and spit-slick. 

“I missed vacation-Felix,” Sylvain teases down at him, smiling into their next kiss, stroking the back of his knuckles across the edge of Felix’s cheekbones. 

Felix huffs, wiggling in his lap. “And I missed sleeping in a proper bed.”

Sylvain can’t help but laugh into Felix’s neck. His entire life has been ruled by Felix’s impatience, and tonight isn’t any different. “Alright, I get it, I get it. C’mon, sweetheart.”

It’s a testament to how much he loves Felix, Sylvain thinks, that despite being in a different city, in a different bed, how much this feels like coming home. He slides between the sheets and into Felix’s arms, kissing soft and slow with no sense of urgency, and Felix wraps himself up around him in return, their bodies slotting together, perfect and familiar, for the hundredth, thousandth, millionth time: Felix’s arms loop around his neck to drag across the sunburnt freckles there; Felix’s thighs wrap around the soft curve of his hips where he’s perched in his lap, pleasant friction where they move against each other; Felix’s chest presses against his, still radiating heat from their bath, both of them softened at the edges by age and time.

Sylvain would be content to just lie here until the world ends around them, the warm weight of his husband curled around him and tucked into his chest, but lingering touches inevitably melt into needier ones, and soon Felix is rocking against him in rhythmic thrusts, breath effervescing from steady to stuttered, making those subconscious little _ah-ah_ noises that Sylvain adores so much. He sips them up, drinks them in, swallows them down whole with deep kisses, tracing his tongue across the shape of Felix’s lower lip, muscle memory mapping each perfect curve and ridge. 

“What do you want, Fe?” Sylvain grins down at Felix, all flushed cheeks and hazy amber eyes half-lidded in contentment.

“You,” Felix shoots back, no hesitation. Sylvain knows this, has known it for years, the simple fact that Felix loves him and wants him and needs him, but hearing it come from Felix, readily given? There’s truly nothing better.

They’ve had each other every single way: quick and dirty, muffling moans with each other’s mouths, desperate and sweaty and wondering if it’ll be their last time together; Felix on his back and against walls and in Sylvain’s lap like this; Sylvain wrapped around him and pressed against the sheets and on his knees; but Sylvain loves it like this, specifically. Unhurried, content desire unspooling through every touch, Felix letting him take the time to chart a path down his face and nuzzle into his neck, sighing into the scratchy scruff of his beard tickling against him instead of tugging at Sylvain’s hair and begging him to hurry. 

“You have me, sweetheart,” Sylvain murmurs back, knocking their foreheads together. Felix’s eyes melt coppery amber where he looks down at him, gaze steady. “Always have, always will.”

“I know,” Felix smiles wryly. They’ve been over this, time and time again, but Sylvain is more than happy to repeat it, as many times as Felix needs to hear it, as many times as he needs to say it. 

“Love you,” Sylvain reminds him again, even as Felix rolls his hips down, harder this time, questing for friction. 

“Yeah, love you too– _a-ah–”_

“Love your cock,” Sylvain smirks, wrapping one fist around them both, watching the way Felix’s eyes go heavy and dark, the way his cheeks tinge pink and the blush spreads across his neck and down his chest, splotchy in the dim firelight. 

“Syl _vain_ , stop teasing,” Felix whines, gasps into his shoulder as Sylvain’s hand speeds up and his wrist twists over both of their heads.

“Alright,” Sylvain says, easy as anything. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

Felix rolls his eyes and smiles at the same time. It might be Sylvain’s favorite Felix-ism in the whole world, his way of showing barely annoyed affection, right after the way he tugs on the hair at the nape of Sylvain’s neck when he’s nervous, or how he crosses his arms and clicks his tongue when he wants Sylvain to hurry up. 

_I wish I could marry you again,_ Sylvain thinks as he flips Felix around so that he’s sheltered within his arms, spread out on the bed, soft and pliant for him. _I’d marry you every day if I could,_ he thinks when Felix reaches for him, pulls him down into his grasp. Sylvain goes down easy, responding automatically to the way Felix’s fingers tug him into place, bodies slotting together perfectly. 

He loves him, he loves him, he loves him. His prickly, beautiful husband, quick to anger but quick to laugh, now, too; the father of their children, firm but patient, steadfast in his love. 

They know exactly how to pull each other apart, how to fit the pieces back together perfectly. Felix knows that scraping his teeth along Sylvain’s jaw is a surefire way to get him moaning and moving faster, just as Sylvain knows that holding Felix’s hips firm and teasing a nipple with one hand while his mouth licks at the shell of his ear is his favorite way for Felix to come, hiccuping soft cries into Sylvain’s hair. 

When Sylvain comes, it’s deep inside Felix, who’s gone soft and limp curled against him, nose to neck, making the softest, sweetest sounds, ribbons of delighted pleasure unfurling across clean, damp skin. Felix’s eyes are dark and unfocused as he watches Sylvain stutter his name in quiet repetition and come undone, pressing his forehead hard against Felix’s until Felix’s fingertips come up to stroke sweat from his face, framing his cheeks with his thumbs, lips curling into a small, sleepy smile.

“Easy,” Felix breathes shakily when Sylvain slips out and down to lick up their mess, lavishing as much attention as Felix allows him across his stomach and the insides of his thighs, gentle, wide stripes of his tongue all up and around. 

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Sylvain murmurs as he wraps his arms around Felix, pillows his cheek against Felix’s thigh, draws gentle patterns over his still-damp stomach until Felix grows impatient and tugs him back up. Sylvain kisses both cheeks and each eyelid before he pulls him in close and tucks him against his chest.

“Yeah,” Felix agrees, quiet and barely-there, already half-asleep. “I know.”

When Sylvain falls asleep, its with thoughts of what they’ll do tomorrow – probably get woken up at the crack of dawn to tiny hands and feet crashing insistently into their bed, dragged out to ride horses with Ingrid or go for a trip through the bustling Fhirdiad market or watch Dimitri crack and crumble under Ava’s insistent pleas and teach her and Hugo spear stances in the training yard. Maybe tea with Annie or Lin. _Definitely_ a round or two of chess. 

And, undoubtedly, another night of falling into the halcyon haven of Felix’s arms, of honeyed kisses and amber eyes and pure, unfettered love. 

**Author's Note:**

> ty [levi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leviicorpus) for betaing this! 
> 
> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/cherryconke) screaming about dadvain ❤️


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